


Peace, Love, and Guitar Picks

by RiverLetheStyx



Category: The Beatles
Genre: AU - Travel in time, Chapter Story, M/M, more to come - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-05-17 04:10:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5853619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiverLetheStyx/pseuds/RiverLetheStyx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world has gone cold.  John Winston Lennon has died on December 8th, 1980, at forty, and Paul McCartney refuses to believe it.</p>
<p>When Paul is digging through some of his memories of John, he finds a guitar pick that he vaguely remembers being given to him.  After wishing to see John again and falling asleep, Paul wakes the next day to find himself in Paris in 1961 - In John's arms, no less.<br/>~~~<br/>The world has gone cold.  James Paul McCartney has died on December 8th, 1980, at thirty-eight, and John Lennon refuses to believe it.</p>
<p>When John is going through Paul's things, he finds a guitar pick in a song book.  After wishing to see Paul again and falling asleep, John wakes the next day to find himself in Paris in 1961 - Holding Paul in his arms, no less.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Paul McCartney and John Lennon are real people, I'm not assuming any sexualities, and this story is purely fictitious.
> 
> WOAH, IT'S FINALLY HERE. Well, at least, the first chapter is. I've been working on this single chapter for about three months now, so hopefully there's more to come quickly, but honestly I can't guarantee anything. 
> 
> Anyroad, I hope you find this as intriguing to read as I found it to be while writing it. To be honest, I had hoped to have it up on December 8th (as that is the theme here), but I hadn't finished it and it took another month for inspiration to strike. I've already begun a following chapter (I'm not sure which one yet) so hopefully this inspiration will stick around a little.
> 
> In the meantime, let's get this show on the road.

**December 9, 1980 Scotland – Paul McCartney**

Paul laughed nervously, his hands shaking as his palms started to sweat and he felt his heart beating erratically in his chest.

“Sorry, ah – What was that?  You said, uh, John…”

“I’m sorry, Paul.  I really am.”

“You’re joking!”  He laughed harder, gripping the phone in both hands, his knuckles going white.

“Paul, John’s been shot dead.”

“Don’t – Don’t say that.  Don’t say dead.  John’s not dead!  John can’t – He can’t – “ Paul felt the shock settling in, felt the pools of dread filling his stomach and making him sick.

“I’m sorry.”

“He can’t be dead!  He’s not dead!”

“I’m sorry, Paul.  He is.  John died late last night.”

Paul swallowed hard, feeling his mouth go dry as he panted for air.

John Lennon was dead.

He hung the phone up, his producer’s constant apologies driving him mad.  He had to collect himself, process his thoughts – his best friend was killed.  Shot dead just outside his own home.

He slowly walked to the couch, sitting down and putting his head in his shaking hands.

What would happen to Julian?  Or John’s youngest son, Sean?

What would happen to Paul?

When Linda got home from dropping the kids at school, she was greeted by the sight of her husband on the couch with his hands in his hair and his head between his knees.

“Paul?”  She spoke softly, approaching him slowly.  “Paul, darling, what is it?”

“I –“ he swallowed, shaking visibly, looking up at her.  “John, he – John is – “

She frowned, watching Paul trip over his words.  “What about John?  Paul, darling, what happened?”

Paul was silent for a minute, closing his eyes and inhaling slowly and deeply through his nose, reaching to the side table for a cigarette and a lighter.  He brought it to his lips, breathing in the smoke and letting it out before standing, his eyes open again.

“John is dead.  He was shot and killed last night.  I have to go to work, I can’t just sit around.”

With that, he put on his shoes and jacket, and left Linda standing in shock in their living room.

**.o0o.**

Paul couldn’t record a damn thing that day.  He spent the day listening to old recordings, trying to piece them together into the song, but it all sounded like shit in the end.  He couldn’t think, he couldn’t focus, he couldn’t _breathe_.

He wanted to stay longer, even though he felt suffocated.  He knew that police and reporters were waiting for him outside.  He knew that the world was waiting for him outside.

Paul wasn’t ready to face them.  He wasn’t ready to face anyone.

He just wanted his best friend back.

Paul sighed, taking the bulky headphones off and rising from his seat, taking his coat from the back as he did so.  “I think I’m going to head home,” he told the crew, who nodded their acknowledgement.

“Hey, Paul,” one spoke up, looking up from his work.  “Be safe.”

“I’ll try.”  Paul said softly, nodding to him.  With that, Paul took a deep breath and stepped outside the studio.

The first thing he saw was a camera and multiple recorders.

“Mr. McCartney!” A reporter yelled.  “Mr. McCartney, what was your reaction to the death of John Lennon?”

Paul sighed.  _Already?_   _Here we go._

“I was very shocked, ya know, it’s just terrible news.”  He said, his public mask on.

“What were you recording today?” Another reporter asked, gesturing to the studio he had just emerged from.

“No, I was just listenin’ to some stuff, ya know, just didn’t want to sit at home.”

“Why?”

“Well, I didn’t feel like it.”

“What time did you hear the news?”

“This morning, sometime.”  He pulled a cigarette out, putting it between his lips in an attempt to give him something to distract himself with.

“Very early?” The reporter asked.

“Yeah – drag, isn’t it?”  Paul shoved past them all, having had enough, and climbed into his car.

**.o0o.**

When Paul got home, he knew he had made a mistake. 

“A drag?” He mumbled to himself.  “My best friend dies, and the only thing I can say is ‘drag, isn’t it’?”

He closed his eyes, leaning his back against the closed front door while he breathed deeply, trying to calm down long enough to let Linda know he was home safely.  Paul pulled a box of cigarettes out of his pocket, lighting one and inhaling it heavily, feeling the smoke reach his nerve ends and fill his lungs with its foul taste.

“Linda?” He yelled out on the exhale, the sound of his voice echoing off the walls of his home.  “Lin, I’m home.  Just thought you should know.  I’m rather tired, I’m going to head off for a kip, yeah?”

Without waiting for a response, he walked up the stairs and locked himself in his room, breathing in another long drag of his cigarette.  Once he was alone, he let himself break down.

**.o0o.**

“Paul?  Paul, darling, may I come in?”

Linda was worried sick.  She’d been standing outside the bedroom door for two hours – since she put the kids to bed – listening to Paul’s cries on the other side.

“Please, Paul… He was my friend too.  John and I weren’t as close as you and he were, but he was still my friend – and George’s and Ringo’s too.  You can’t shut the world out, let me in, please.”

Linda sighed, leaning her head against the door, trying to hear what Paul was doing on the other side.  She heard him breathing heavily, trying to stifle his cries.  When he finally opened the door to let her in, his eyes were red and puffy and he had tear stains coming from his eyes from every angle humanly possible.

“Lin – Linda, Linda, Linda, I – god, Lin, John was more than my friend.  I loved him, Linda.  I love him.  I – god, I’m sorry.”  Paul choked out a sob, his voice breaking unnaturally while he reached out for his wife, who pulled him into her embrace.

“Shh, Paul, it’s alright,” she whispered into his head, gently guiding him back into the room so she could close the door behind them.  “It’s alright, I know, I know you loved him.  I know.  I know.”

**December 10, 1980 Scotland – Paul McCartney**

Paul stared blankly at the phone hanging on the wall.

“Call her,” Linda ordered.  “You need to talk to her, it’ll help the both of you.”

He turned to face her, still looking at the phone from the corner of his eyes.  “How would I start a conversation, Lin?  ‘ _Oh, hey, it’s me.  Paul.  Your dead husband’s best mate.  Oh, by the way, speaking of John, what did he think about me?  Hmm?_ ’  Would you appreciate a phone call like that from John if I had died last night?”  Paul sighed, closing his eyes.  “Would you even want to hear from John?”

“I wouldn’t have wanted to hear from him the day you died, but yes, if you had been the one to die, I would want to talk to John.  That’s why I’m going to make you call Yoko, because you know that she’s not going to call you.”  Linda took Paul’s hand, softly kissing him, trying to get him to open his eyes again.  “Now, are you going to call her, or am I going to have to call her for you?”

He sighed, burying his face in his wife’s hair and breathing in slowly and deeply.  “I’ll call her,” he said slowly with his exhale, pulling away from the embrace.  “I’ll call her.”

“Good.” Linda nodded, stepping back.  “Do you want me to stay or go?”

“It’s up to you,” Paul said softly, reaching for the phone and putting it to his ear.  “There might not be much talking going on.  More crying, if I’m honest.”

Linda nodded, kissing her husband on the cheek before leaving to let him have space.  He sighed, listening to the insistent ringing, waiting for the phone to be answered on the other end.

When the ringing finally ended, he realized just how much he wasn’t ready to have this conversation.

“Hello?” The soft, accented voice said gently.  “Who is it?”

Something in Paul broke, again, leaving him frozen in place.

“Hello?” She said again.  “Please, my husband died last night, I’m not in a mood for-“

“Yoko?” Paul said softly, snapping out of his stupor.  “It – It’s me.  It’s Paul.  I’m sorry, I- I heard the news last night, and I just – Linda told me to call.”

“Paul?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you called.” Yoko sighed softly, falling quiet for a bit.  “He was very fond of you, you know.  John was, that is.”

“Yeah, I - “ Paul closed his eyes, breathing heavily and shakily, on the brink of tears.  “I was fond of him too.  More than fond, if I’m honest.  He – John was my best friend.  I loved him.  I still do.”

“I believe that he loved you too, Paul.”

**.oOo.**

Paul laid in the dark in bed that night, his fingers absentmindedly playing with a black guitar pick that was given to him as a gift from John while Linda slept.  He sighed softly, bringing the pick up to his eye level so he could watch as it weaved through his fingers without falling to the mattress or his face.

“I wish you were here,” Paul whispered into the darkness.  “I wish I could speak to you again.  Write with you again.  Sing with you again.”

He closed his eyes, curling his fist around the pick and clutching tightly to it while he slept.

**~**

**December 9, 1980 New York – John Lennon**

The world was cold.  John refused to believe what he was hearing, refused to believe the reality of the situation he was being handed, and he refused to listen any more.

“No, no, no.  Stop talking, just- Yoko, I said stop!”  He said, his pitch getting higher with each word he said, his voice threatening to crack under the stress.  “Paul’s not dead, stop telling me this nonsense!”

“oh… Oh, John, I’m sorry.” She stepped forward, reaching for him in an attempt to comfort her husband.

“Paul can’t be dead, we just- We just spoke on the phone last week!  He was going to fly over for the New Year!”  John started shaking, his hands clenching into fists, struggling to keep them at his sides.

“I’m sorry.”  Yoko said softly, taking a step backwards to let John have his space.  “I know you were fond of-“

“Fond?”  John laughed half-heartedly, shaking his head.  “Fond, I was?  Was that all?  Me best mate for twenty three years goes and dies, and I was just fond of him?  Shit, Yoko…  I was more than ‘fond’ of Macca.”  He turned around then, leaving Yoko to stand there alone, slamming their bedroom door shut behind him with no intention of returning to society for weeks.

**~**

Paul McCartney was dead.

The world was taken by storm, of course – the cute Beatle, the second youngest, Paul McCartney, who had only been married for eleven years and had four small children, the musical genius who had written “Yesterday” and worked with John Lennon for ten years was shot and killed in the middle of the street.  Some mourned for him, others refused to believe that it was true, and the people who thought Paul was already dead – well, they laughed at the rest.

As for John; he refused to believe that it was true.  He mourned.  He laughed when he watched the official announcement, and then he cried when he couldn’t sleep at night.  He smoked.  He drank.  He shot up.

John Lennon did everything short of taking his own life to try to join Paul.

When he finally left his bedroom, he looked a mess.  It was obvious he hadn’t been taking care of himself for days; his hair was greasy and tangled, he was pale and a little thinner than he had been before, and his red eyes were sunken into his skull and surrounded by dark bags.

Yoko was out when John emerged from their room like the dead.  He intentionally waited for when he knew she would be gone; barely ready to face himself, much less another person.  He could hear Sean playing with the nanny when he walked past the small five year old’s room, but he tried his hardest to block it out.

It wasn’t very hard to ignore him.

John made his way to the kitchen, grabbing a cigarette from the ash tray that had been previously stuffed out, but there was still enough cancerous substance clinging to the end for him to light and fill his lungs for a few puffs.  He put the butt between his lips and lit the smashed end with a lighter from the counter, filling the kettle with water while he inhaled slowly.

He waited in silence for the water to boil, not yet sure what he wanted to do with it.  He knew he needed to eat and drink something healthy, but the thought of digesting it made him nauseous.

Any thought of _doing_ anything, other than trying to dull the pain, made John nauseous.

The sound of the screaming kettle pulled him from his trance, and he pulled it off the gas stovetop and turned it off, searching the cabinets for his tea bags.  When he finally found them, he grabbed a handful, throwing all of them into the closest cup without a care and poured the boiling water over the haphazardly stacked tea bags.  He carried the cup back to his bedroom, setting it on the bedside table, and stared into the slowly-seeping water for nearly ten minutes in silence, just watching it.

How was he supposed to move on?

Paul was his best friend for the better half of his life.  It wasn’t like it had been when Stuart had died – John and Stu were only friends for a few years when he died in ’62.  John and Paul were inseparable for most of their lives.

John couldn’t imagine living without him.  He didn’t want to think about it, much less imagine it.  He never wanted it to be a reality.

The phone ringing beside his (now cooling) tea jarred him from his thoughts.  He stared at it as it rang once, twice, three times.  It was probably just Yoko, ringing to let him know she was coming home, or it could be a friend calling to wish their “condolences”.  John knew none of them sincerely cared.

John would never learn why he answered the phone, but he picked it up as the fourth ring sounded throughout the apartment.  “Hello?” He spoke softly into the receiver, his voice rough from days of misuse and harsh treatment.

“John?”  The woman on the other side spoke quietly, like she had been crying when she decided to call.  “It’s Linda…  I, uh – I thought it might be good for us to talk.”

“… Linda?”  John frowned, sitting on the edge of the bed while he listened to the now-widowed Mrs. McCartney. 

“Yeah, it’s me… John, I was looking through Paul’s – I was looking through some of Paul’s things, and I found...” She paused, taking deep breaths as her voice shook like she was on the verge of tears.  “I found some things you might want to see.”

John’s heart seemed to stop in his chest.  “Paul left things for me?”

“I don’t know if they’re necessarily for you, but – yes.  It’s… It’s mostly lyric sheets and home recorded cassettes, and I thought, well… I thought you might want his guitar and bass.”  Her voice finally cracked when she said ‘guitar,’ and John knew that Linda was crying again.  “There are a few things that I know Paul would want you to have – like Stu’s painting, and his lyrics sheets from The Beatles days…”

“He kept all that shite?”

“He kept anything that the two of you worked on together.”

John laughed half-heartedly, struggling not to repeat Linda’s actions and start crying on the phone.  “Oh yeah?  That fond of me, was he?”

“John, Paul loved you.”

“You really think so, Lin?  You think he loved me?”

“I know that he did.  Told me so himself.  He – John, Paul said that if you were a girl he would’ve married you.”

He froze at Linda’s words, his grip on the phone tightening till his knuckles turned white and his gaze turned stony and distant.

“So he loved me like he loved you, did he then?”  He asked softly, his voice breaking.

“Paul loved you, John.  Like he loved me.”

John didn’t sleep that night.

His tea sat, cold and untouched, through the New Year.

**~**

**January 1, 1981 Scotland – John Lennon**

John (unlike his tea) spent the first three hours of 1981 on a plane to Scotland with Sean.  Linda had made arrangements for him to stay in the Macca household for a few weeks and help her go through all of Paul’s things so they could divide it up between the two of them.

He still hadn’t processed that, although he was going to Scotland, he wouldn’t be seeing Paul.

Linda had held a funeral.  A huge funeral that John was sure filled the largest church that Scotland could offer.  There had been flowers and a casket and George had made a show and sang a song, and there was a priest and a burial and a memorial and John thanked whatever God above that he didn’t have to arrange it and he had made excuses to get out of going.  He didn’t exactly deal with his grief well, and he would have only ruined the funeral for Paul’s family.

He did, however, participate in the ten-minutes-of-silence that the world held in Paul’s honor two weeks after his death.  John was already silent most of the time, and always thinking about Paul, so it wasn’t very hard for him to join in on the quick memorial.  He even got Sean to be quiet for those ten minutes “in memory of Uncle Paul,” he had told him.

“What happened to Uncle Paul?” Sean had asked, in his infinite childhood innocence.

Telling Sean was the hardest thing John’s ever had to do.  At least, he thought it was – till he got a phone call from Cynthia and Julian about Paul and had to tell Julian about Paul’s passing.  He had hoped that Cynthia would’ve told him.

While Sean slept on the plane ride, John pulled out a notebook and a pen and started writing for the first time since he’d heard the news.  It wasn’t really anything good, but it was something – and it didn’t revolve around Paul, which was huge in John’s opinion.

Sean woke just in time for the plane’s rocky landing, but John carried him off the plane nonetheless, searching for Linda and the rest of the McCartney family when he stepped off with the five-year-old in his arms.  John scanned the crowd, hopelessly searching for a mop of dark hair and perfectly-plucked eyebrows, to no avail.  He smiled sadly at Linda when he finally found her and their eyes met, making his way towards the McCartney’s.

“You made it,” Linda smiled softly at him, hugging him and Sean in greeting.  “To be honest, I wasn’t sure if you were coming.  After your excuses to skip the funeral –“

“I know,” John cut her off, feeling guilty.  “I’m sorry I missed it.  But… you know me.  It was probably best that I did.”

“You’re quite right, of course.  It was hard enough as it was.”  She sighed heavily, shifting little James’ weight in her arms.  “Well, shall we get going then?  We have a long couple days ahead of us.”

**~**

The drive to the McCartney’s farm actually wasn’t very long, but somehow both James and Sean managed to fall asleep along the way.  John watched his son lean against his might-as-well-be nephew’s car seat, and smiled softly to himself as he watched the two boys sleep.

“How are the girls?”  He whispered softly to Linda so as to not disturb the little ones.  Linda sighed, visibly growing sad at the mention of her daughters.

“Mary’s completely distraught, and Stella is old enough to understand the situation, but she’s young enough that she clings to her innocence and pretends she doesn’t realize what’s going on.  Heather is absolutely beside herself.”

“I can imagine.”  John sighed softly, removing his glasses and rubbing a hand over his tired eyes.  “Was he… Was Paul, that is… was he happy, when it was over?  D’ya think he…had a good life?”

Linda turned to face John, smiling sadly, then glanced in the rear-view mirror to check on her sleeping toddler.

She never answered him.

**~**

In the days that followed, John and Linda spent most of their time together in the house trying to sort through things.  There was an ungodly amount of half-assed lyric sheets with chords written hastily above their corresponding words, an unseen amount of instruments, and an obscene collection of photographs and home films.  John smiled softly when he found the camera that most of Magical Mystery Tour was filmed on, and he was sure to ask Linda if he could keep it.  She, of course, had no issue with that.

On the fifth day of his trip, Linda had to go out and run errands, leaving John in the farmhouse by himself.  Not that he minded – John was actually quite thankful to have the chance to go through some things on his own.

He used that day to empty out boxes that he wouldn’t have wanted to with Linda there.

To be precise, he wanted to go through the boxes labeled with his own name by himself.

He sighed to himself, sitting alone in the living room as he pulled the lid off the slightly dusty box, sipping at his tea as the contents of the box greeted him.  Inside was a notebook with “JOHN – SONGS” written in capital letters on the cover.  John flipped through it quickly, finding that it was full and included scraps of other papers between the pages from the notebook.  About halfway through, a black guitar pick fell out, with a simple golden peace sign engraved in it.  John held it up to the light, inspecting it carefully, then put it in his pocket where he could find it again later and put the pick to good use.

He spent the rest of the quiet afternoon listening to Paul’s demos that he never had a chance to record at a studio, and never would, and flipping through the lyrics written in the notebook.  Half of them, John didn’t even understand why they were placed in his box.  The other half were clearly about him, and he could barely read through the first verse on most of those without breaking down.

**~**

That night, John laid in his bed, staring up at the ceiling.  He still hadn’t changed out of his clothes, he found it rather pointless when he didn’t think he’d be sleeping anyway.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out the pick that he had found earlier in Paul’s notebook.  He brought it to his lips, delicately placing a kiss on the cold, black plastic.

“I wish you were here,” John spoke softly against it.  “I wish I could speak to you again, write with you again, sing with you again.”

He closed his eyes, curling his fist around the pick and clutching tightly to it while he slept.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY THIS IS LATE. i have no excuse other than i had it done a week or two ago, but i just ... im not terribly proud of it. here it is anyway. ALSO I FUCKING HATE TIME TRAVEL HOLY SHIT MAN DON'T SCREW UP YOUR PAST
> 
> ALSO! I'm currently doing a Septiplier 30 day challenge, but! I plan to do one for McLennon in June, so keep watch for that!

**October 30, 1961 – Paris, France**

John couldn’t tell what was wrong.  He wasn’t quite fully awake yet, and he could feel the sunlight coming in from the window and warming his skin not covered by the thin blanket.  His back was against the wall, his front side facing the room, and John could feel the weight of a body in his arms.  He could feel the person breathing evenly in their sleep, hear their nearly silent snores, and at first, John thought that Sean had snuck into his room sometime in the night.

Then, he realized the body was far too heavy to be a five-year-old boy.

The first thing John saw when he opened his eyes was a mop of dark brown hair that seemed to glow where the sun touched it.  The dust seemed to dance around and settle in a crown for him.  For a moment, John thought he was dreaming.

Paul McCartney lay sleeping peacefully in his arms.

Once John relaxed enough to take in more of his surroundings, he realized that they were in Paris together – making him 21 in his dream, and Paul 19.

He returned his attention to the young man sleeping in his hold, watching his chest expand and contract as he breathed, reveling in the feeling of Paul’s hair tickling his arm where it rested.  John smiled softly at him, burying his nose in the teenager’s hair and inhaling his scent.

Before he could exhale, John realized that this was all too real to be a dream.

John had wished to see Paul again, and here he was – in Paris in 1961, before fame, before everything – and this was his chance to save Paul.

Before it was too late.

**.oOo.**

Paul smiled softly in his half-awake, half-dream state, still processing the world around him before he opened his eyes.  He could feel the sun’s rays on his face, and the window must’ve been open because he could hear birds singing and could smell bread baking from the bakery across the street.

When he finally opened his eyes, he didn’t quite believe what he saw.  He stared up till he realized John was looking back at him, then he hastily scrambled to get away.

“What?”  John said, letting him go immediately, seeming to sense the tense situation and Paul’s awkwardness.

“Sorry, I, uh-“ Paul stuttered, scrambling for an explanation.  _I thought you were dead_ , he thought to himself.  “Wasn’t expecting you.”

“Wasn’t expecting _me_?  Who were you expecting then, Paulie?  George?”  John shook with his laughter, giving Paul a moment to compose himself better.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting anyone, to be honest.  I dreamt we were – uh – back in Liverpool.  Home.”  He glanced around quickly, trying to figure out where exactly they were without giving away the fact that he had no idea, other than it wasn’t 20 Forthlin Road and it wasn’t Mendips.

“Does that mean you’re getting sick of Paris?” John chuckled nervously, sitting up in the bed to meet Paul’s eyes (and to be above him a little).

Paul’s eyes widened.  _Paris?_   He looked around, smiling widely as he finally took in their surroundings, turning back to face John.  “Nah, I don’t think I’ll ever be sick of Paris.  Something tells me that these will be the best days of my life.”

“Oh yeah?  Our trip to Paris, that’s what you’re gonna look back on when you’re old and gray?”  He seemed to grow quiet as he continued talking, running a hand through his hair to hide his nerves.  Paul could see right through him.

“Johnny?  Are you alright?” Paul asked, leaning up on his elbows, his face getting dangerously closer to John. 

“Me?” John laughed it off, sitting up taller.  “’m fine, Paulie.  I’m gonna walk down to that bakery and get some bread with the little quid we’ve got left.  You want some?”

“Yeah, alright.”  He smiled at John, getting out of bed to let him up.  “I’ll get in the shower while you’re out.”

John smiled as he climbed out of bed and straightened out the blankets, though Paul could tell it was tense.  He watched as John got dressed and left, leaving Paul standing in the middle of the room by himself like an idiot.

He looked around, trying to fully process what had happened.  He knew for sure that the night before, it had been 1980 and he had fallen asleep at home in Scotland with Linda – so how did he wake up in 1961 in Paris and in bed with John?

He looked around, trying to find any clue he could find that could give him even the slightest hint as to why he was here.  Scrambling around through his and John’s bag and making a mess of the place, Paul found nothing he deemed significant enough to explain the mystery he was in the middle of.  He sighed, standing up straighter, and walked into the small bathroom to follow through on his promise to John to shower.  He turned the water on before he looked at himself in the mirror, but what he saw wasn’t honestly what he was expecting.  His 19 year old self stared back at him, his hair full of grease from keeping his Teddy Boy look in place for days at a time.  Paul ran a hand through it and his eyes followed his motions in the mirror, afraid that one slight touch would send the world spiraling and Paul would wake up again in 1980.

When he was fully satisfied that this was, in fact, real, he turned away from the mirror and started undressing to shower.

**.oOo.**

Stepping out of the small hotel room, John wanted to scream.  He stood in the hallway for what felt like an eternity, trying to weigh his options and figure out what he was going to do next. 

Paul was _real_.  He knew that, he knew that he wasn’t dreaming, but that didn’t make the situation feel any less like a dream.  He had hardly seen Paul before the tragedy of 1980, and then to hear he had died, and wake up with 19 year old Paul in his arms?

It all seemed so surreal.

John reached into his pocket, pulling out his pack of cigarettes and a lighter.  He lit one, bringing it to his lips and breathing in slowly as he started walking, trying to settle the uneasy feeling growing in his stomach.

Was this right?

He knew everything that was about to happen.  He had already lived through the next 19 years of his life, was he prepared to do it again?  He knew what songs The Beatles wrote, he knew what Julian’s first words would be, he knew when he would meet Yoko, he knew when Paul would marry, he knew when Ringo would walk out of Abbey Road, he knew when George would cheat on Pattie.  He knew which songs would be hits and which ones he could get away with never publishing.  He knew Stuart’s fate; he knew Brian’s.

He knew Paul’s fate.

John stepped outside into the ever-glowing French sunlight, taking a right turn and following the sidewalk with his gaze set on the horizon instead of going straight to the bakery for bread for him and Paul.

If John knew exactly how the next nineteen years of his life would play out, then was it really right for him to relive them exactly the same, with the same ending?  Was it right for him to change things?  To try to alter the outcome?

Could he?

He turned the corner with a sigh, already getting a second cigarette out since his first was down to the halfway point, and he watched as the orange flame from his lighter mixed with the blazing light from the sun and the smoke from his cigarette rose into the air.  He put the lighter away after his second cigarette was lit, keeping the first between his index and middle fingers, and the second between his middle and ring fingers on his right hand. 

Knowing his dilemma wouldn’t disappear anytime soon, and he had to get back to the room before Paul finished showering and freaked since he wasn’t back yet, John turned back.  He crossed the semi-busy street, and walk into the small bakery with a hand-crafted sign bearing the inscription _le dépôt de pain_.

Behind the glass counter were sweets of every kind.  He looked around, bringing his duo-cigarettes to his mouth to calm his nerves while he pulled some quid out of his pocket, searching for something he knew Paul would love.

By the time he finally decided to just get an entire loaf of plain French bread, both his cigarettes were burnt completely down.  He sighed, discarding the useless butts on his way out of the bakery, and walked across the street and into the hotel.

When John got back to the room, Paul was staring out the window in a daze.  He had a lit cigarette in his mouth, a pen in his hand, and paper in his lap.  His guitar was leaning against the bed like it was used recently, and his hair was wet and hung limply over his forehead.  He hadn’t even noticed that John had entered.

“Oi, Paul,” John said as he closed the door, causing Paul to sit upright, mostly likely startled out of his haze.  “Wotcha writing?”

“What? Oh!” Paul smiled after a second’s hesitation, turning to better face John, abandoning his pen and taking the cigarette out of his mouth.  “Nothin’ really.  Thought I’d write a song, but nothing’s working out.”

“Need some help?”  John offered, crossing the room to sit cross-legged on the bed with Paul.

“Nah, I’d rather eat some of that bread you got there.  How much quid have we got left?”

“Enough for a day or two, I should think.”  He smiled at his friend, stuffing an oversized bite of bread into his mouth before offering some to Paul.  “Oi, Paul?”

“Hmm?”

“What if we got our hair cut today, like how Astrid did Stu’s?”  John smirked around the chewed-up bread in his teeth, tearing off another bite from the loaf.

He was playing a risky game, and he knew it.  Paul had been the one to suggest the hair cut the first time around, but if John could make this successful, then what else could he change?

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that myself,” Paul responded with a smile.  “Let’s do that with the remaining quid, then head home.”

John grinned.  John Lennon: One point; the Universe: Zero.

This game was about to get interesting.

**.oOo.**

Paul sat in relative silence while John was getting his hair cut, watching the little snippets of auburn hair fall to the floor of the hotel room.

He was a little shocked when John suggested the haircuts, Paul admitted to himself.  He had thought that he had been the one to propose it the first time, but here they were getting it done and the world wasn’t imploding, so he supposed he wasn’t that big of a deal.  Maybe he was wrong, perhaps it had been John to suggest it.

Most of his days blurred together, he couldn’t be expected to remember every little detail of his life.  Sure, he remembered the significant moments: like how he met John, and when he joined the band, and when Stu died and when Dot lost his baby and when he met Linda.  But the tiny details? They blurred together.

“Alright Paul, you’re up!” John smiled, rising from the chair and brushing through his hair with his fingers.  A few stray clippings fell onto his shoulders, then to the floor as he moved to take Paul’s spot on the bed.  “How da’ I look?”

“Like a good n’right Kraut.” Paul joked, laughing a little when he sat in front of Jürgen and waited for the sound of metal scrapping against metal to start.

He watched in the mirror as little clips of his dark brown hair fell to the floor, his smile widening as his mop-top began to replace his once-popular teddy-boy look.  He glanced back at John through the mirror every now and then, smiling when he saw the older boy already watching him.

Paul always thought that the mop-top suited John well.  It looked good on him, especially when John wore his glasses. 

Of course, he hardly ever did that.

Paul looked back at his own reflection, trying to brush off stray clippings that had fallen to his shoulders without messing Jürgen up.  It would be just his luck that in this timeline, Jürgen slipped his hand and Paul ended up without a left ear, or a gash in his forehead.

Of course, the whole thing went smoothly and without incident.  Paul grinned at himself (and John) in the mirror, playing around with his hair.

“Ta, Jürgen!” He grinned, punching his friend in the arm to express his gratitude.  “It looks better than I expected.  Especially on John!”

“Oh yeah?” John smirked, his eyebrow raising into his new hairline.  “Ya think so, Paulie?”

“Well, it certainly doesn’t look bad.”

“Which is it?  Does it look _especially good_ , or just not bad?” John laughed, nudging Paul with his shoulder while Jürgen cleaned up.  Paul glanced from John’s face to his hair, then back to his face again, his own grin widening.

“It looks quite good, John.  Long hair suits you.”

“Can’t wait to get home and see what Aunt Mimi thinks.  She’ll be positively lively.”  John laughed, his fingers running through the long strands and playing around with it, trying to get his hair to settle in a comfortable position.

“Oh yeah, so will my Da.”  Paul laughed, reaching out to help John push his new bangs to the side.  “Think Mike will try to copy our new look?”

“Mike?  Why, I believe the whole country will try to imitate us, the great John Lennon and Paul McCharmly.”

“I believe that The Beatles and their soon-to-be-famous mop-tops will take the world by storm.”  Paul laughed, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette and lighter.  John laughed too, stealing a cancer-stick from Paul’s pack. 

_If only he knew_ , John smiled, lighting up and bringing it to his lips.

_I can’t wait till he sees just how far we go_ , Paul grinned back, inhaling slowly on his cigarette.

**.oOo.**

The train ride through France to the English Channel was only a few hours long and in the middle of the day, but somehow John managed to fall asleep.  Paul smiled and watched him sleep, humming a song that he wasn’t sure was written or not yet, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

He stopped humming when he felt John’s head moving from its place on his lap, watching as he sat up and stretched his arms above his head.

“How long was I out for?” John asked, his voice scratchy and deepened from his mid-sentence yawn.

“I dunno, about an hour, maybe two.  I’ve been watching the scenery.  France is rather pretty.”

“Yeah, I suppose it is.” John smiled, his gaze shifting from Paul to look out the window.

Paul just smiled, his attention diverting from the outside to John’s smile.

**.oOo.**

When they got back to Liverpool, Paul went straight home.  He knew John was more than likely going to visit Stu, and wouldn’t mind if Paul skipped out, so he did.

It was around midnight when he walked through the front door, using the hidden key from under the decorative rock, and the house was dark.   He swore under his breath, knowing he couldn’t turn any lights on or risk waking someone up.  He set his suitcase and guitar case down at the door, using his hands to feel the path up the stairs and to his bedroom, where he finally turned on a light (once the door was closed).  He looked around, smiling when he realized that nothing had changed – his room was exactly how he remembered it being before he left home.

He closed the door, got undressed and climbed into bed, and found himself staring up at his poster of Bridget Bardot on the ceiling.

He was home.

Paul was surprised that he didn’t find himself missing Linda and the kids – of course, he loved them dearly, but he supposed he would see them soon enough.  His kids weren’t born yet, but he knew Heather would be in a few months, and he knew he would meet Linda in a short few years.  He felt like he could wait till then.

He was shocked, however, to find himself missing John.

Hadn’t he just seen him?  They had spent the last day or so together in France and hitchhiking home, and it was every bit as fun as he remembered it to be the first time, so why was he lying in bed wishing his best friend was beside him?

He sighed to himself, closing his eyes and trying not to dwell too much on that.

After he woke up four times that night from dreams about John, he resigned himself to the truth.

He was in love with his best friend.

“Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woohoo there ya go! if you have any questions or just wanna say hi, hit me up @ potentialmixtape.tumblr.com because that's the best place to reach me. ily all!


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